A creased smile eternally present on my image

This arm exists to close guilt

Your tragedy spoke words but left me to question it anyways

Never separating the fine line of the road and the constant blues your face hums still in the night

And you may plant flowers to the ceiling

You might see bodies laying in the ocean

These numbers slip your pride to a slow rot

You can't collect the moon

Your bottle won't sing, anymore

As if my eyes and heart could feel blood once more